


the last victory

by venndaai



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt on tumblr: "You can trust me." Gimli rests during the celebration for Frodo and Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last victory

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to tumblr http://senatorcretak.tumblr.com/post/89871087370/you-can-trust-me-legolas-gimli-go

Fourteen days have greatly changed Ithilien. Gone is the stench of death; the great Anduin smells now of fresh growing things and the little wooded isle is lit by many lanterns. A flock of noble Men and women have descended upon it like brightly plumaged birds, and their melodious voices fill the warm spring air. Gimli lies on soft grass, back against a tree, and listens to the rushing of the water. It is marvelous indeed, he thinks, that a Dwarf should feel so comfortable in such a place, so far from his home. Here he is, admiring the beauty of trees and grass like an Elf.

"Ho, Gimli," a voice softly calls, as though summoned by his thoughts.

Legolas Greenleaf steps from the shadows. He is dressed more simply than Gimli had expected, in soft gray offset only by the green brooch at his throat, more an anonymous Elven scout than the princeling of the Green Wood. Then again, Gimli considers, he himself has elected to attend a formal occasion without wearing the braids and ornaments of the House of Durin for the first time since he left his father’s halls for Rivendell. Perhaps they are simply both relaxing, finally able to focus on enjoying the moment.

"Master Elf," Gimli greets, putting down his pipe and exhaling a final puff of smoke. "Tell me, is this little wood to your liking?"

"Yes," Legolas says, face in shadow, voice light. "These trees are young but they know dignity. This island has been tamed by men but they have tended to its beauty well. And you, my friend? You look very comfortable for a Dwarf under the open sky."

Gimli chuckled. “You elves really think we do not know the beauty of the stars? We do not spend our entire lives below ground.” He points to the cloudless firmament. “Even so far east, you can still see Durin’s Crown. Even now, many miles away, it glitters in the still waters of Kheled-zaram.”

The shadow is silent, and then he says, “My jest was thoughtless. Forgive me.”

"I was not offended," Gimli assures him, but he is thinking. Two months ago, Legolas would have informed him that Durin’s Crown had been named something else first by the Elves, who seem to have spent all their time in the morning of the world naming everything they saw so they could claim it as their own. But Legolas has changed. 

The Elf flows down to sit on the bank, sliding into the sphere of illumination provided by a nearby lantern. Gimli studies the features that have become so dearly familiar to him.

"You look well," Legolas says, abruptly, "I am glad to see your wounds so fast recovered."

"Ah, well," Gimli says, "we Dwarves come from hardy stock."

"Well do I know it," his friend replies, and Gimli does not take his eyes from the proud sharp face, and what he imagines he can see there.

"I am glad you are here, Master Elf," he says, slowly. "There is a question I wish to ask you."

Legolas had been leaning back. Now he stills, planes of his body shifting under the dove-gray cloak as muscles tense. “Ask,” he says, “and I shall answer to the best of my ability.”

"If you do not fear the dead, my bold friend, then what do you fear?"

He relaxes by the smallest fraction, leaning back against the grassy bank studded with tiny flowers. His long legs stretch before him. “I fear many things,” he says. 

"Which things are these?"

"Mortality." His gaze drops to the ground. "Loss, regrets." He laughs without real feeling. "Rohirrim cooking."

Gimli twirls the stem of his pipe in his fingers, but his eyes do not waver. “What manner of losses?” 

Legolas does not answer.

Gimli puts his pipe down carefully on the ground. “Legolas, why are you fearful now? Here? We have won. Our goals are achieved, there are no more quests, nothing more to be won or lost.”

"Perhaps there is yet one more thing," he whispers. 

Gimli does not pause to consider his actions. He reaches out and takes the elf’s long, narrow hand. His tongue feels leaden. He is too clumsy in this shared second language of theirs. “My friend,” he says. “My friend, please… you have nothing to fear from me. You must know, by now, that- that I feel nothing but the greatest friendship and admiration that ever any Dwarf felt for another-“

The soft voice in his ear, “Nothing more?” and then Gimli’s hand is being cradled and lifted by another, with longer, more delicate fingers. Those fingers explore the two rings he wears on his left hand, and then it is lifted further and Gimli makes himself stay still, unmoving, unbreathing, as Legolas brings up his hand and lightly presses a kiss to the back of it. It is suddenly very clear to Gimli why the two of them have chosen to discard any reminders of their respective identities for tonight. His muscles ache with their enforced stillness. The river suddenly sounds very loud in his ears.

His hand is lowered but not dropped.

"Ah," Gimli says, when he has found his breath again. "Ah, Legolas. I did not dare to hope." The stars are very bright.

"Nor I to love," his companion says, "but my heart did not listen to my fears."

"It has long been apparent to me," Gimli says, "that you possess a courageous heart. I am glad you acted. I do not know how long I would have kept my silence."

Legolas's fingers intertwine with his own. "I have wanted to do this since the night we fought at Helm's Deep. You have beautiful hands."

Gimli snorts. "I hope that's not the only part of me you find beautiful."

"I find every part of you beautiful," Legolas says, "though that pipeweed habit you picked up from our little friends does not do wonders for your breath."

Gimli smiles. "Oh, Legolas," he says. "I am alive, and you are by my side, and the stars shine very brightly. It does not seem possible to hold this much happiness. Surely I will burst."

"You'll survive," the elf says, laughing. Their fingers grip tighter. The dwarf in the warm light of the lantern, the elf in the shadows lit just enough by starlight. Stone and air, earth and sky. Things are as they should be.

Later, they return to the heart of the celebration to keep company with the hobbits, and if anyone observes that the dwarf’s left hand remains clasped in the elf’s right, they do not remark upon it.


End file.
